"Tis little; but it looks in truth And in the places of his youth. Come, then, pure hands, and bear the head That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep; whatever loves to weep, And come, And hear the ritual of the dead. Ah! yet, even yet, if this might be, The life that almost dies in me: That dies not, but endures with pain, XIX. THE Danube to the Severn gave The darkened heart that beat no more; They laid him by the pleasant shore, And in the hearing of the wave. There twice a day the Severn fills, The Wye is hushed nor moved along; I brim with sorrow drowning song. The tide flows down, the wave again XX. THE lesser griefs, that may be said, That breathe a thousand tender vows, Who speak their feeling as it is, And weep the fulness from the mind. "It will be hard," they say, "to find Another service such as this." My lighter moods are like to these, That out of words a comfort win; But there are other griefs within, And tears that at their fountain freeze; For by the hearth the children sit Cold in that atmosphere of Death, And scarce endure to draw the breath, Or like to noiseless phantoms flit; But open converse is there none, To see the vacant chair, and think, XXI. I SING to him that rests below, And, since the grasses round me wave, And make them pipes whereon to blow. The traveller hears me now and then, And sometimes harshly will he speak : And melt the waxen hearts of men." Another answers, "Let him be; A third is wroth: "Is this an hour For private sorrow's barren song, When more and more the people throng The chairs and thrones of civil power? "A time to sicken and to swoon, When science reaches forth her arms To feel from world to world, and charms Her secret from the latest moon ?" Behold, ye speak an idle thing: Ye never knew the sacred dust; I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing. And one is glad; her note is gay, For now her little ones have ranged: And one is sad; her note is changed, Because her brood is stolen away. XXII. THE path by which we twain did go, And we with singing cheered the way, And crowned with all the season lent, But where the path we walked began Who broke our fair companionship, And spread his mantle dark and cold; And wrapped thee formless in the fold, And dulled the murmur on thy lip; And bore thee where I could not see Nor follow, though I walk in haste; And think that, somewhere in the waste, The Shadow sits and waits for me. XXIII. Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, Alone, alone, to where he sits, Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, And looking back to whence I came, And crying, "how changed from where it ran Through lands where not a leaf was dumb; But all the lavish hills would hum The murmur of a happy Pan: When each by turns was guide to each, And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought, Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech; And all we met was fair and good, And all was good that Time could bring, Moved in the chambers of the blood; And many an old philosophy On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady." XXIV. AND was the day of my delight If all was good and fair we met, This earth had been the Paradise It never looked to human eyes Since Adam left his garden yet. And is it that the haze of grief Makes former gladness loom so great? That sets the past in this relief? Or that the past will always win XXV. I KNOW that this was Life,-the track The daily burden for the back. |